The feathers are sticky beneath her skin. What’s the anatomy of a feather? I’ve no idea. The hard bit is a quill, right? I should know that, being a writer, but I live in an age where my instruments are digital; I haven’t held a pen in years, nor a typewriter. I’ve always wanted a typewriter, though. Like the one Jack Torrence had in The Shining; the one with the eagle motif. If it’s indeed correct, and it is a quill that I’m thinking of, then the quills go deep into her, and the feathery bits (barbs?) are as prominent as her veins, if not more so. Their colours, while as varied as a rainbow, lean more towards black and white, with the others acting as subtle shades that give a measure of depth to her as yet virgin wings. There’s nothing subtle about Meeko, though. With her hands held high above her head, she stretches as she so often does first thing in the morning. Well, not morning, afternoon. She even makes the same purring sound; right down to the tickling rasp that rattles at the back of her throat, brought on by those cigarettes of hers that she smokes out the window watching the rising and then the sinking of the moon. Her breasts are no longer breasts, and that white-hot sex of hers is now entirely made of light—the folds of her flesh invisible. Reaching out a hand as my spurting spunk reaches its peak before beginning its descent, I slip in a finger causing her to squawk.